


Forty One

by OpalSkyLoveDivine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 13:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4627407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpalSkyLoveDivine/pseuds/OpalSkyLoveDivine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He stood in the shadows, snugly tucked beside the tall metal lockers. The smells of the ancient hospital were comforting and haunting at the same time. So much had begun and ended in this place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forty One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilsherlockian1975](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilsherlockian1975/gifts).



> This is a little something for the wonderful lilsherlockian1975. Hope you like it, hun! ;)
> 
> I've never written anything that was inspired by a song before. It was quite a interesting experience! So here we go:
> 
> Dave Matthews Band's #41...the Sherlolly interpretation!

 

Forty One

 

_**…I'm playing time against my troubles…** _

…..

It was a year to the day since she killed him.

Well, not really.

Just _formally_ …in black and white, would be a more accurate description. Not that she _killed_ him formally. She wasn't convicted of his murder. He was just…dead…formally. She had signed his death certificate herself.

She lied, of course.

He was alive…somewhere in the world. At least he _had_ been a year ago. She hadn't seen or heard from him since Mycroft's car took him away from her flat, incognito.

Since he'd gone, Molly was a prisoner to the hope of hearing from him. The possibility was continually in the back of her mind, permanently on high alert. She knew that if he were to contact her it would most likely be elusive and indirect. So she tried to be prepared for anything… for a year.

She was exhausted.

As she closed the door behind her and kicked off her shoes, Molly watched with tired eyes as Toby padded over with his usual greeting, rubbing his furry head against her feet.

"How's my little man?"

She smiled weakly at the feline before wandering to the kitchen to get his dinner. As Toby wolfed down his meaty fare she managed to scrape together a bowl of left-over take-away for herself and eased down onto the couch.

She looked at her dinner with a vacant stare, her mind drifting to the dead detective once more. She sighed as she placed the bowl on the side table and laid down, curling her petite body in a fetal position with her back to the room.

She didn't want to think about him anymore. She didn't want to wonder if he was eating…or if he had a place to sleep that night…if he was sick or cold or running for his life. The constant whirl of speculation had taken its toll.

She was tired.

…..

_**…The playing time is won** _

_**But the difficulty's coming here** _

_**I will go in this way** _

_**And find my own way out…** _

…..

He stood in the shadows, snugly tucked beside the tall metal lockers. The smells of the ancient hospital were comforting and haunting at the same time. So much had begun and ended in this place.

And the moment a certain petite pathologist walked through the heavy doors, he realized he was finally home.

She rounded over to her locker, obviously tired from her long shift, totally oblivious to the dead man's presence. As she opened the mirrored door it flashed an image long awaited but her mind doubted her eyes for a moment.

Not until the ghost's visage alluded to a shadowy smile did Molly turn to face the apparition turned flesh and blood.

And when their gaze bridged the darkness between them they were suddenly enlightened to more than one truth…a flood of reality, both releasing and imprisoning them.

…..

He turned in a sweeping stride, glancing with a smirk at the face of home, which was full of nervous ardor, stepping up to meet his replacement whose eyes reflected his opposite in mind and temperament, but whose veneer was a pale facsimile.

_Oh._

…..

_**…Come down all the ghosts come back** _

_**Reeling in you now** _

_**Oh, What if they came down crushing** _

_**In a way I used to play for…** _

…..

His brain sluggishly processed the sting on his cheek as he tried to refocus on her fierce expression. But no sooner did he find her eyes did his head jolt sideways again from another blow. Just as his left cheek began to register the second slap, his right cheek was shocked by the hardest of the three strikes.

Surely she could see it now…how caring for him, in the way she did, was not an advantage. As the disappointment and pain in her eyes burned him like acid, he took solace in the hope that she'd finally be free of him.

His hand massaged his stubbled face as he heard his harsh words fall from his mouth. Her eyes were blazing with hurt as John began his lecture.

They didn't understand.

He was the one who needed to make the hard choices…to dance with the devil when no one else would. He made sacrifices before…even when they were unpopular and maligned.

He always calculated the cost.

…..

_**…All of the loneliness that nobody noticed now** _

_**I'm begging slow, I'm coming here** _

_**Only waiting I wanted to stay** _

_**I wanted to play** _

_**I wanted to love you…** _

…..

As she opened her front door, Sherlock stood before her silhouetted by the night but haloed from the streetlamp behind him. His face was lowered so that only the top of his unruly curls could be seen.

"Sherlock?"

Something was wrong.

She had adjusted to the distance he had set between them the past couple of months.

When he was shot and convalescing she had checked in only when he was unconscious or asleep. She left no message or sign that she'd been there but she knew him well enough to know that he had deduced her visits from the beginning.

She had wordlessly forgiven him and hoped that they'd return to normal. But when he'd recovered, their only interaction was in the presence of John and Lestrade, to see a body or to get results from an autopsy. His perfunctory greeting and glances were fleeting and insufficient, always leaving her with a profound sense of loss.

Nevertheless, she respected his choice to stay away. She knew not to force any unwanted contact with the self-professed socio-path. Though that fact didn't stop the flow of her stubborn tears in the wee hours of the morning. So when she found said socio-path standing on her doorstep at 2 AM, she was completely gobsmacked.

"What's wrong?"

Sherlock's gut twisted from the concern in her voice. How could she still care? He had done everything he could to discourage her interest, short of cutting her down verbally. He couldn't find it in himself to sacrifice that much. He hadn't the courage to make Molly Hooper hate him even if it was for her ultimate good.

The detective slowly raised his head enough to fix his eyes on the pathologist. Her arms wrapped around her middle with her dressing gown thrown haphazardly over her shoulders. Most of her hair was up in a loose messy bun with soft tendrils having escaped during her not-so-peaceful sleep. She stood there by the warm glow of London's lamplight, with that look in her chocolate eyes. He remembered the same expression of unwavering concern when he came for her help all those years before.

The intensity of his stare softened a bit and she noted a trace of a smile before she heard his low baritone.

"You can't save me this time, Molly Hooper. I'm sorry…for everything. I've…I've come to say goodbye."

Molly's eyes grew in size as she took a step closer to him, attempting to discern the answers she sought. He held his breath as her small hands came up to rest on the sides of his face, pinning him with her searching gaze.

"What do you mean, Sherlock? What's happened?"

He swallowed hard before letting out a long breath in a puff, steaming up the cold night air between them. And without another thought his large hands gravitated up to clasp her wrists and he closed his eyes in an attempt to center his thoughts.

"I've…done something…something I deemed necessary in order to protect…those who matter. But I need to pay for that decision, Molly. I'm being… sent away, instead of prison. I wanted…to give you this." He brought their hands down as he took out a plain white envelope from his dark coat.

She frowned as she attempted to understand his rapid confession and stared at the starkness of the letter in front of her.

Molly tore her gaze away from his offering and looked up into the depths of Sherlock's tumultuous eyes. She saw the futility of his plight reflected there and her own eyes filled with unshed tears as her trembling hands covered her mouth.

"No…"

Sherlock marveled inwardly at this woman's ability to see him. He knew from experience that there was a chance Molly would uncover the truth with one glance. It was something he did on a regular basis to others, but was rarely on the receiving end, unless it was his brother. Somehow, it was bittersweet when Molly Hooper revealed him; instead of feeling exposed, he felt…relieved and understood.

As he folded his letter and slipped it into the pocket of her gown, it was at that moment he realized he was being selfish. He had spared everyone who cared for him the reality of his fate. And here he was, placing another heavy burden on his pathologist's shoulders…once again.

This time it was Sherlock who brought his hands up to cup Molly's face. He looked deeply into the warmth of her eyes, as if attempting to capture her very essence to himself.

The intensity of his gaze and his touch became too much and she let out a small cry as she covered his hands with her own.

"Don't go," she whispered in a strangled voice before a tear trailed slowly down her cheek.

His thumb gently wiped away its path as Sherlock's eyes crinkled slightly with a sad smile.

"I…love you, Sherlock Holmes," she breathed out, her large brown eyes blinking up at him.

Sherlock's chest constricted and he inhaled sharply from the sudden warmth that radiated throughout his body.

His brow furrowed from the strange sensation and Molly took this change as a negative one.

"I'm…I'm sorry. I know you probably don't want to hear these things, but I just couldn't…"

Without warning Sherlock's mouth descended upon hers with such fervor it caused them both to sway back into the threshold, prompting him to grab hold of the doorpost before sliding his other arm around her waist.

Molly gasped from the intensity of his lips and brought her arms up to rake her fingers through his dark curls, deepening the kiss. Eagerly following her lead, she felt, rather than heard, a rumbling in his chest while strengthening their embrace. Eventually breaking for air, their frosty breathe billowed around them as he leaned his forehead against hers.

"Forgive me…for hurting you. I never wanted…" Sherlock paused as he lifted his head to look into her eyes. "I don't deserve your love, Molly Hooper."

"Just do one thing for me, Sherlock…one thing…" Her face literally glowed with an unearthly energy as he listened intently to her plea.

"Come back to me."

…..

_**…I'm only this far** _

_**And only tomorrow leads the way** _

_**I'm coming waltzing back and moving into your head** _

_**Please, I wouldn't pass this by** _

_**Oh I wouldn't take any more than** _

_**What sort of man goes by?** _

_**I will bring water…** _

_**…Why won't you run?** _

_**In the rain and play** _

_**Let the tears splash all over you.** _

…..

"I'm worried about him, Mary. It's been six weeks now." John spoke in a hushed tone, running a hand over his face in an effort to revive himself.

Mary Watson followed her husband's gaze into the dimly lit hospital room.

"I know, love. But this _is_ Sherlock we're talking about here."

"Yes, Sherlock Bloody Holmes, I know…he is still a human being, though…isn't he?"

She looked back into the eyes of the man she loved with sympathy and squeezed his arm in reassurance.

"I do wonder sometimes…" she responded with a mischievous twinkle, causing John's glower to soften a bit.

"Yeah, me too," he said with a sad chuckle. "The whole thing was like a bloody movie plot, wasn't it?" Mary moved to wrap her arms around his middle, prompting him to nuzzle her ear, appreciating her show of comfort.

His gaze returned to the detective along with his worried frown.

"He told me once that he didn't believe in heroes…"

Mary turned to look into John's face.

"…And that _he_ wouldn't be one, even if they _did_ exist." He shook his head slowly at the memory. "I'd like to know what a hero _is_ then…" John asked, meeting his wife's gaze. "…How he bloody saved her, the way he did. If that wasn't a hero, I don't know what is."

Mary nodded in quiet agreement as she looked through the glass partition, to the hospital bed and then at the man who sat beside the comatose Molly Hooper.

"I know of a least one other person who'd agree with you… if she could," Mary said in a soft voice and a small smile.

Following her eyes back to the still form of the pathologist, he quickly looked down with a creased brow and attempted to clear his throat of its sudden lump. "Yeah, yeah…she would at that."

…..

Sherlock sat close to Molly on the side of her bed, his left leg touching her left arm as he read the latest Pathology Journal aloud. His right leg used the chair beside her bed as a footrest and he leaned his weight on this leg with his elbow, making himself as comfortable as he could.

The detective rarely missed a day at the woman's bedside. No one would have ever guessed the man was capable of such devotion. The first couple of weeks were the hardest. Sherlock had refused to leave her side, even for a moment. It was only when his mother promised to stay by Molly's side did he leave to tend to his personal needs.

As two weeks turned into a month, the detective resigned himself to a routine that revolved around Molly Hooper's hospital room at St. Bart's. He would on occasion even solve cases from his laptop, making sure that she could hear all of his brilliant deductions along the way.

Eventually Lestrade and John were able to convince him to go to crime scenes while Mary took his place.

A balance of sorts had emerged, but as the weeks dragged on and there appeared to be no sign of improvement, the loyal few became increasingly anxious for the consulting detective.

"Sherlock…?"

"Mm…" he murmured without looking up, continuing to type into his laptop.

"Sherlock, could you stop for a bloody moment?" John said in an aggravated tone, causing the man to still and look up with controlled annoyance.

"What, John? Can't you see that I'm in the middle of something here?"

"No, actually I can't and regardless of that, we need to talk."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but closed the laptop, in spite of feeling a bit brassed off.

John took a deep breath before going ahead with the awkward and potentially volatile discussion.

"It's been six weeks, Sherlock."

The detective blinked once before slowly narrowing his eyes at his best friend.

"Forty one."

John's brow wrinkled slightly in confusion as he paused to consider his response.

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock straightened his back as he glanced briefly in Molly's direction. His eyebrows disappeared under his curly fringe as he looked back with a challenging air.

"I'm correcting you, John. It's been forty one days…not forty two and I'm assuming you have a point."

John blinked twice and opened his mouth to speak, but his well-rehearsed words seemed to fail him.

"Or perhaps not," Sherlock commented in an insolent tone.

This snapped John out of his momentary fog and he shot off one of his threatening smirks before trying again.

"We're worried about you, that all. It's been…forty _one_ days and you've been…"

"I've been…what?" Sherlock cut him off with growing agitation.

It was then when John realized he had to take a different approach. He looked down briefly to gather his thoughts, but quickly gazed back at the affronted detective with a steady confidence.

"She wouldn't want you to stop living your life, Sherlock. She loved you…she'd…."

Sherlock jumped up from where he sat and rounded over to where his friend stood, looming over him with an accusing finger and a growl.

"I have not _stopped_ , John… I'm just living it _here_. And I would greatly appreciate it if you'd stop referring to HER in the past tense."

John Watson took a step back from the man and looked at him with new eyes.

_Oh, God…he loves her._

The detective took a step back himself and inhaled sharply before turning and walking to the window. He looked down at the darkening streets of London as he released an exasperated breath and tried to work through the jumble of emotions he was experiencing.

He knew John and the others meant well. He knew they cared. But they didn't have all the facts. They didn't know…

Sherlock shut his eyes and he clenched his jaw while mulling over his next words.

"I need to make sure she _knows_ , John. She has to know that…I've come back."

John stared at him uncomprehendingly, feeling confused once again.

"I don't understand, you mean back from your six month exile that turned out to be all of four minutes? Why should that…"

"It was not for six months, John…it was a suicide mission. Mycroft estimated six months before I'd be killed and he's never wrong. Molly was the only one who saw the truth. And the last thing she knew, I was essentially going to my death. "

John stood motionless as he listened to Sherlock's revelation, watching him run both hands through his hair in frustration.

Letting his arms drop limply to his sides he slowly turned to face John once more, permitting his friend see the pain he'd been enduring since Molly's kidnapping.

"I must get her to understand…" His crystalline eyes drifted to the pale face of his pathologist as she lay in her bed, looking even smaller and more delicate then normal.

"How can I make her understand?"

Sherlock's voice sounded completely lost, prompting his friend to take a step closer to Molly's bed.

"There is some evidence that supports a level of cognition in coma patients, Sherlock," he said quietly. The detective's eyes flickered up briefly before settling back on Molly.

John shifted his weight from his left to his right leg and chewed the inside of his lip before clearing his throat to ask a question.

"I know she's heard your voice…you've been here every day talking, reading… even ranting about one thing or another, if I know you at all and I do," he said before flashing a brief smile. "I guess I was wondering if you've actually…talked _to_ her…not just _at_ her. Do you know what I mean?"

Sherlock's skin between his eyes crinkled as he processed the question, leaving John in the all too familiar spot of waiting for the detective to emerge from his mind palace. This time, however… the army doctor took it as the perfect opportunity to get back to the woman that _he_ loved; perhaps even taking a little extra time to articulate how lucky he was to have her.

…..

When Sherlock finally _did_ return mentally, he glanced down to see Molly looking the same as he left her.

Taking a deep cleansing breath he walked slowly to the bed and carefully lay down on his side next to her; his upper body leaning on his elbow.

Swallowing thickly, he looked down into her peaceful face, only a few centimeters away from his own, feeling suddenly quite out of his depth. And being entirely unaccustomed to such a thing, he felt his frustration mounting.

Her closed eyes became emblematic of the hindrance between them. She was separated from him and he was determined to do everything he could to get her back.

He knew exactly what he wanted to tell her. He was just scared as hell that she wouldn't hear him.

"Molly…" he said in a voice that sounded strangely shy and insecure…and completely incongruous to his own ears. He needed to go back to the start…to the place where _they_ began.

"Do you remember what you asked me, Molly Hooper? You asked me to do something for you…one thing."

Sherlock's face became fractionally closer while his baritone grew in intensity.

"I managed to do what you requested…but not… before the bastard took you from me forty one days and nineteen hours ago."

His hand slid up to cover hers and began to slowly trace the outline of her knuckles with his thumb.

"I'm…sorry…" he said in a stiff tone.

Pausing, he pulled his eyes away to gaze into the shadowy corners of the room and let out a bitter chuckle as he shook his head at an unexpected realization.

"It would seem that I find myself in a perpetual need of asking for your forgiveness." A sad smile spread across the detective's face and he let out a tired sigh before carrying on, his eyes focusing on anything but the unresponsive woman lying before him.

"I was late…too late to save you from being taken. But I'm here now and…" Hesitating for a moment, He looked down at their hands and frowned from the heaviness in his chest.

"Years ago you told me that I could have you…do you remember that? I don't deserve your love, Molly Hooper…but…I want it anyway. I want you. So I'm going to ask you to do something for me…just one thing…" His voice faltered almost imperceptibly as he dragged his eyes to her face once more.

"Come back to me," he whispered just before capturing her cool lips in a gentle kiss.

…..

First light had bathed London skies in a golden purple that morning and Sherlock Holmes had fallen asleep, cozily tucked beside his pathologist. His arm was slung protectively around her waist while his cheek nuzzled the side of her head, sharing her pillow.

As daybreak infiltrated the room, consciousness threatened to intrude upon his unintentional slumber and he became vaguely aware of his surroundings before he even opened his eyes.

Moving his hand once again to find Molly's, his fingers wrapped around hers in a firm grip and with closed eyes his lips grazed her temple in a sleepy kiss.

"Morn'n, Doctor Hooper," he slurred into her hair. And his eyes shot open in an instant when he felt a definite squeeze from her hand.

Sitting up in a flash, he stared dumbfounded into Molly's warm brown eyes and groggy smile, blinking several times to make sure the sleep and rising tears didn't blur his view of the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Writingwife83 for doing some fast beta work for me...YOU ROCK, my dear!


End file.
